


Stumble

by Skyzuki



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Post-Canon, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:44:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyzuki/pseuds/Skyzuki
Summary: She hated Orlais, hated the Winter Palace. If she were coherent, she’d be complaining about wasting her blood in this foyer.





	Stumble

**Author's Note:**

> Hi ny'all!!! I was cleaning out my drafts and I found this monstrosity. I could go back and add to it, but I really can't be bothered lmao. Take this draft for now.

She doesn’t exit the Eluvian as much as she _falls_ _out._

Exhaustion, pain, grief; it all hits her like a rearing druffalo, and she takes a few valiant steps before collapsing.

He is so relieved to see her in one piece, that he fails to realize that she _isn’t_ in one piece. One of her arms is missing, which would be a big deal if they were in any other situation.

Dorian heals her well enough for the journey back to Halamshiral.

“She’s not gonna die then, is she?” Sera asks, peering at Bull like he has a solid answer.

“Of course not. None of us will, not here.” Dorian responds for him. Final and sure, like there is no room for argument.

None of them will die here.

*

She’s almost unconscious by the time they return to the palace, looking up at Bull with a glazed look in her eyes. She doesn’t seem to be hurting anymore, has a faint, delirious type of smile on her face.

She’s unintelligibly muttering words that may or may not be Elven.

The palace’s inhabitants start taking notice to the hulking qunari carrying their hero, limp and pale.

There are gasps as they pass, they probably assume she’s dead at first glance.

She _feels_ dead. Unmoving, clammy, sticky with old blood.

Aside from the arm, one of her ankles seems to be bent the wrong way. The weight of her is all wrong, and he wonders if it has anything to do with the injury.

*

Once inside, he has to shove past more shocked nobles. He has no etiquette, now. No time for the solemn expressions and dramatic wails of grief from socialites who wanted to see her fail to begin with.

She hated Orlais, hated the Winter Palace. If she were coherent, she’d be complaining about wasting her blood in this foyer.

He shifts her, and clears a desk with one arm. She begins to shiver as soon as she loses his body heat, and he feels the urge to scoop her back up and run as far as his legs will carry them.

He wants to take her away from her duties, from magic, from demons.

Dorian calls for the healers, and Bull is pushed further away by the minute. He can make out glimpses of her between the gaggle of mages.

She starts making horrible, pained sounds after only a few moments; he has to will himself to not march over there and sock a healer in the face for hurting her.

*

The panic subsides, eventually.

Her cries stop, the healers calm, most of the onlookers have cleared the space.

It is now that Bull notices that the entire party is beat; Dorian has a bloody temple, Sera’s lip is busted, Bull is certain that he’s had better days. They’re all equally exhausted, but it would be ridiculous to think that any of them would go and rest now.

Her advisors rush down when the news reaches their ears. They check in with the healers, and Bull strains to hear their prognosis.

*

Bull isn’t sure how much time passes before she’s able to be relocated to a real bed. It feels like hours, though that couldn’t be possible.

She’s breathing steadily, chest rising and falling with little effort.

He has to tell himself that she’s just sleeping, that she will live, that she is here.

Without thinking, he reaches out to take hold of her hand. Her _hand._

She’s cold, but that isn’t anything new. She’s ghostly pale, but she always has been.

*

He walks in on utter commotion.

He left for _ten minutes_. He needed to check up on everyone, make sure the world wasn’t splitting apart without her.

Of course, she’d choose to wake up then.

He hears screams from the bottom of the staircase.

She still isn’t totally coherent, standing on the bed, gripping the shoulder of a petrified-looking servant. 

A breathless string of “ _Where is he?”_ and “ _What happened?”_ is all she seems able to get out.

The servant- a stout human woman- is desperately trying to placate her with clueless reassurances.

He stands in the doorway for a moment.

“Boss.” He calls, when she doesn’t notice him.

She lets go of the servant (who hurriedly scurries out) as soon as she hears his voice.

In this moment, their Inquisitor certainly is the pinnacle of grace and valor; shoulders slumped, little feet digging into the wyvern-down mattress, wearing her smallclothes and some bandages.

“ _Where is he?”_ She asks, one last time, voice broken and hoarse from exertion.

*

She passes back out shortly after the outburst, after begging Bull to lay next to her.

He’s grateful for the long overdue opportunity to rest, and he falls into an uncharacteristically deep sleep.

He dreams of Seheron, his life before the Inquisition. Dreams of meeting Krem, of losing his eye. Of meeting her. Of the _shame_ that plagued him after being declared Tal-Vashoth.

He dreams of the night that she returned to Skyhold, barefaced and alone. Of the first time he propositioned her. Of the first time he heard her say the words “ _ar lath, ma vhenan”._ Of the first dragon that they killed.

*

He wakes to the sound of muffled crying, opens his eye to see her sitting on the edge of the bed.

He presses his knuckles to the knobs of her spine, _so cold._

“I can’t shoot anymore.” She whispers, turning around to face him.

He puts a hand on either side of her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones.

Neither of them find sleep again, she weeps against his shoulder until the sun starts to rise over the mountains.

*

Once she’s well enough, she’s called to meet with her advisors.

Dressing proves difficult for her, she spends twenty minutes doing up the buttons of her tunic. He knows better than to offer his assistance, she would never accept it for something so small.

She doesn’t check herself in the mirror before she leaves; her hair is slightly disheveled, her eyes are puffy, her pants are wrinkled.

She leaves him with a kiss, insisting that she’ll be just fine.

*

“Sera’s asked me to join her and the Jennies.” She states, midway through reading a report.

There is a fire roaring in the hearth, sounds of crickets and a gentle breeze pushing in through the window. She’s nursing a steaming hot mug of elfroot tea, propped up against luxurious pillows.

Things are almost normal, at least for tonight.

“Will you?”

She looks up from the parchment, looking a bit confused at such a question.

“I’m not much good to them now, am I?”

“Oh, I’m sure Sera would find _some_ use for you.”

She exhales through her nose in a way that reflects amusement. She’s smiling just a little, at the corner of her mouth.

 _Progress_ , he thinks.

*

 In the morning, decisions are made, plans are set.

Everyone will go their separate ways, with no promise of reunion.

Things are patched enough for the time being. Solas needs to be found, but they have a while to breathe.

“We can go anywhere.” She remarks, thin wonder in her voice. “Anywhere we’d like.”

“I’d like to go to a tavern, first.”

She grins, and he realizes just how much he missed seeing her dimpled cheeks. 

“A tavern sounds lovely, _vhenan_.”

*

 


End file.
